Barfly on a Friday night – rammed. Not as you might expect with sweaty youths, oh no, an older crowd is in tow tonight for a couple of hot, new electro-ey acts – wicked.
The (definitely) sweatiest, (maybe) youngest and (for sure) the wearers of the tightest t-shirts in the room were To My Boy. Two in numbers they are, fun, energetic and exuberant also. Bands at this stage in their careers are always interesting – eager to please, healthy muscles, a certain fearlessness. Their willingness to give it their all oft supersedes any professionalism but fuck it, whipping the top floor into a frenzy is no mean feat.
My mood however, was one of confusion. There’s quite a bit going on with these see – bleepery, speedy beats, quirky vocals – and it’s a tad overwhelming on first listen. Amalgamation occurs, rawness abounds and blurring naturally follows.
This may or may not be their fault. On record (Myspace) they are crisp, tight, original and a blast. Edgy, difficult, noisy, spikey, everything you need really if electronica is to be worth a watch - I Was A Cub Scout with more of an eye for a frolic or two. If you need a reference point, that’s it.
Fujiya & Miyagi play a different fiddle. Deep, bassy, witty, cynical, cocky, patronising and… middle aged. Oh the contrast, but here it is: the night began with a flurry, a cider-blur and now, clarity. A more perfect combo of support/headliners I cannot recall.
Fujiya & Miyagi pretend to be Japanese and sing about it. They also chant there own name and in Collarbone sing about which body parts are attached to various other bodyparts: “toe-bone up the ankle bone, ankle bone up to the shin bone, shin bone up to the knee bone,” after declarations of having “to get a new pair of shoes, to kick it with her, now kick it wid you…” because of numerous broken bones thanks to tripping over his shoelaces.
In many ways they have to be heard to be believed. It’s clever, it’s funny, and it’s also so very danceable. There’s a proper bassy, krautrock undertone to the tunes, which are short, sweet and riddled with various “uh, uh’s” and diversions into French.
“You’re off your, you’re off your, you’re off your bleedin’ rocker” they speak/sing at you. Street-speak yes, but smarter than The Streets. Non-aggressive 30-40 year olds providing a wave of sound upon which to ride, laugh and think. What else do you need?
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Album Review. Viking Moses - Swollen & Small.
Neutral Milk Hotel are one of the most overlooked bands of the last ten years. Led by the exceptionally talented and now very low key Jeff Mangum, they were seemingly loved only by those who knew a thing or two. A hidden gem, waiting to be uncovered. Which, if you haven’t – yet - you should do - now.
Viking Moses – Brendon Massei, mainly - are even less well known. Quite what the point is of this venture (Viking Moses doing songs by Neutral Milk Hotel) with pals Steve Gullick and The Virgin Passages, is debatable. They’re not exactly bringing NMH to a wider audience.
So a personal project doubling up as a prelude to the re-issue of NMH’s debut record - On Avery Island - seems the most likely explanation. Massei proclaims Mangum his greatest influence. Covering him then, was probably a pleasure.
Not that you’d know it. For there are only four songs here (three from On Avery Island, one from second record In The Aeroplane Over The Sea) and all but one are from the gloomier, death obsessed and more abstract side of the back catalogue. NMH were never exactly happy, but miserable people have levels of miserable-ness - and this is pretty fucking miserable.
First off, the originally vaguely high tempo-ed opener “You’ve Passed” is turned from the fuzzy, folky twang it once was into a much slower, shorter, acoustic model. The vocals pretty much just imitate, but the lack of background noise means greater emphasis is put on the skewed vocal melodies disguised in the prototype.
Much the same is achieved with second track “Gardenhead/Leave Me Alone”: fuzz reduced, melodies exposed and the energy flattened. Instead of the lively, rolling riff of the original, the guitar track is reduced to a repetitive garden-shed clunking. And again, the lack of noisy accompaniment highlights the bizarre, dreamy lyrics. Check these baby’s out: Leave me alone, for you know this isn't the first time/In fact this is twice in a row /That the angels have slipped through our landslide/And filled up our garden with snow/And I don't wish to taste of your insides /Or to call out your name through my phone. It’s not exactly 9-til-5 lamenting.
“Where You’ll Find Me Now” is a fairly straightforward cover of a fairly straightforward NMH song (it’s relative, obviously, none of it is that straightforward). But the same can’t be said for “Holland 1945” - the solitary track from the In The Aeroplane Over The Sea album.
Viking Moses take it from what was essentially a punky, pop song based around an obsession with Anne Frank and stretch it out into a stringy, pingy, hillbilly Americana number complete with backing vocals and a distant harmonica. It - and all these songs - is much sadder than the original.
One thing to be taken into account with Mangum is that he’s a song-writer of the Jeff Buckley, Bob Dylan ilk. Not in sound, at all, but in that his creations have no ‘way’ to be played. Everything is open to interpretation.
Key lyrics, special notes, rhythms and structures. Mangum himself played around incessantly. Massei then, is simply offering us his interpretations. I hope for his sake he’s not always in this mood, for that would be a dark place indeed. Instead I’m going to imagine these people, just doing their thang, and not really giving a fuck if anybody likes it or not. It’s not essential, but it’s a great collectible.
Viking Moses – Brendon Massei, mainly - are even less well known. Quite what the point is of this venture (Viking Moses doing songs by Neutral Milk Hotel) with pals Steve Gullick and The Virgin Passages, is debatable. They’re not exactly bringing NMH to a wider audience.
So a personal project doubling up as a prelude to the re-issue of NMH’s debut record - On Avery Island - seems the most likely explanation. Massei proclaims Mangum his greatest influence. Covering him then, was probably a pleasure.
Not that you’d know it. For there are only four songs here (three from On Avery Island, one from second record In The Aeroplane Over The Sea) and all but one are from the gloomier, death obsessed and more abstract side of the back catalogue. NMH were never exactly happy, but miserable people have levels of miserable-ness - and this is pretty fucking miserable.
First off, the originally vaguely high tempo-ed opener “You’ve Passed” is turned from the fuzzy, folky twang it once was into a much slower, shorter, acoustic model. The vocals pretty much just imitate, but the lack of background noise means greater emphasis is put on the skewed vocal melodies disguised in the prototype.
Much the same is achieved with second track “Gardenhead/Leave Me Alone”: fuzz reduced, melodies exposed and the energy flattened. Instead of the lively, rolling riff of the original, the guitar track is reduced to a repetitive garden-shed clunking. And again, the lack of noisy accompaniment highlights the bizarre, dreamy lyrics. Check these baby’s out: Leave me alone, for you know this isn't the first time/In fact this is twice in a row /That the angels have slipped through our landslide/And filled up our garden with snow/And I don't wish to taste of your insides /Or to call out your name through my phone. It’s not exactly 9-til-5 lamenting.
“Where You’ll Find Me Now” is a fairly straightforward cover of a fairly straightforward NMH song (it’s relative, obviously, none of it is that straightforward). But the same can’t be said for “Holland 1945” - the solitary track from the In The Aeroplane Over The Sea album.
Viking Moses take it from what was essentially a punky, pop song based around an obsession with Anne Frank and stretch it out into a stringy, pingy, hillbilly Americana number complete with backing vocals and a distant harmonica. It - and all these songs - is much sadder than the original.
One thing to be taken into account with Mangum is that he’s a song-writer of the Jeff Buckley, Bob Dylan ilk. Not in sound, at all, but in that his creations have no ‘way’ to be played. Everything is open to interpretation.
Key lyrics, special notes, rhythms and structures. Mangum himself played around incessantly. Massei then, is simply offering us his interpretations. I hope for his sake he’s not always in this mood, for that would be a dark place indeed. Instead I’m going to imagine these people, just doing their thang, and not really giving a fuck if anybody likes it or not. It’s not essential, but it’s a great collectible.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Live Review. Los Campesinos - The Spitz - 5/3/07.
Los Campesinos means “The Peasants” in Spanish. This is weird, sort of, but emulates the vibe flowing through these - a kind of forced wackiness that entertains. That name means nothing, probably, but it made me laugh and they’re such a crazy bundle of charming, innocent abandon that you can’t help but enjoy them.
Seven students at Cardiff University they are. Seven. Everything about this lot screams ‘out of the ordinary’, and their sound refreshingly follows suit. If you’re going to be a bit zany/off-kilter/left-of-centre, you may as well go the whole hog.
Here, tonight, at the Spitz, they totally swamped the stage and were all over the bloody place at times, but they managed to never sound bad. There’s a kind of jangly riot feel to the whole thing - if someone fucks up, someone else will sort it out. They are strange, and difficult to pin down, and that is a good thing. They love Pavement, for sure, but the rest…
They use triangles and other such twee percussive instruments. They chat torrents of shite between songs including an explanation of why they shout: “Don’t read Jane Ayre” in Please Don’t Tell Me To Do The Math(s). It transpires the dude, Gareth Campesinos, hasn’t even read her and wants us to treat it as a throwaway comment – so we do. So gentle and polite are these folk, you have to obey.
They have fast, jangly, danceable riffs; they have a ballad; they have men, women, a whole bunch of people ready to love them and lyrics like: “I’m sticking your fingers into sockets/to kick-start your little heart.” Their single - We Throw Parties, You Throw Knives - is a quickly spat tale with quirky, fit-in-as-many-as-you-can man-sung lyrics and sweet girl-sung melodies. They are a gloriously young and fascinating pop band.
These are nice, intelligent people intent on doing something different and doing it well. God knows how they’ll make any money with seven of ‘em but that’s beside the point – you bloody capitalists you. Los Campesinos sold out The Spitz after one single. They are rising fast - catch them while you can.
Seven students at Cardiff University they are. Seven. Everything about this lot screams ‘out of the ordinary’, and their sound refreshingly follows suit. If you’re going to be a bit zany/off-kilter/left-of-centre, you may as well go the whole hog.
Here, tonight, at the Spitz, they totally swamped the stage and were all over the bloody place at times, but they managed to never sound bad. There’s a kind of jangly riot feel to the whole thing - if someone fucks up, someone else will sort it out. They are strange, and difficult to pin down, and that is a good thing. They love Pavement, for sure, but the rest…
They use triangles and other such twee percussive instruments. They chat torrents of shite between songs including an explanation of why they shout: “Don’t read Jane Ayre” in Please Don’t Tell Me To Do The Math(s). It transpires the dude, Gareth Campesinos, hasn’t even read her and wants us to treat it as a throwaway comment – so we do. So gentle and polite are these folk, you have to obey.
They have fast, jangly, danceable riffs; they have a ballad; they have men, women, a whole bunch of people ready to love them and lyrics like: “I’m sticking your fingers into sockets/to kick-start your little heart.” Their single - We Throw Parties, You Throw Knives - is a quickly spat tale with quirky, fit-in-as-many-as-you-can man-sung lyrics and sweet girl-sung melodies. They are a gloriously young and fascinating pop band.
These are nice, intelligent people intent on doing something different and doing it well. God knows how they’ll make any money with seven of ‘em but that’s beside the point – you bloody capitalists you. Los Campesinos sold out The Spitz after one single. They are rising fast - catch them while you can.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Album Reviews (TWO!!). See Below...
Holly Golightly & The Brokeoffs
You Can’t Buy A Gun When You’re Crying
Wild Billy Childish & The Musicians Of The British Empire
Punk Rock At The British Legion Hall
Holly Golightly - Capote invented, Hepburn immortalised – excels in re-hashing a distinguished past. Playing country and bluegrass music with The Brokeoffs (one Texan – Lawyer Dave) she becomes a mystical, saddening presenter of deepest, darkest American heartache.
Train sounds and softened electro-acoustic guitars keep the dream (nightmare) alive whilst stories of firearms, relatives lost and god-fearing paranoia ensure an authentic, uber-listenable, ‘inevitable-bad-ending’ drama. Check the amazing album title too.
Childish shares none of these concerns, remaining a self-referential puritan ever keen to promote his credentials.
Within the Kinks-y blues music, swipes are taken at Kylie Minogue, John Peel and Tracy Emin: “I was asked to appear on Celebrity Big Brother/Only because I was some two-bit artists lover,” before explaining how his former Buff Medways were ‘proper’ punk-rock revered by Cobain and Jack White but ignored nonetheless.
He gets away with it though, thanks to lyrics such as this: “Rupert Murdoch rules the waves/Richard Branson doesn’t shave/Joe Strummer’s moulding in his grave,” - a treasure and observer of the worst injustices.
Two thumbs up for these.
You Can’t Buy A Gun When You’re Crying
Wild Billy Childish & The Musicians Of The British Empire
Punk Rock At The British Legion Hall
Holly Golightly - Capote invented, Hepburn immortalised – excels in re-hashing a distinguished past. Playing country and bluegrass music with The Brokeoffs (one Texan – Lawyer Dave) she becomes a mystical, saddening presenter of deepest, darkest American heartache.
Train sounds and softened electro-acoustic guitars keep the dream (nightmare) alive whilst stories of firearms, relatives lost and god-fearing paranoia ensure an authentic, uber-listenable, ‘inevitable-bad-ending’ drama. Check the amazing album title too.
Childish shares none of these concerns, remaining a self-referential puritan ever keen to promote his credentials.
Within the Kinks-y blues music, swipes are taken at Kylie Minogue, John Peel and Tracy Emin: “I was asked to appear on Celebrity Big Brother/Only because I was some two-bit artists lover,” before explaining how his former Buff Medways were ‘proper’ punk-rock revered by Cobain and Jack White but ignored nonetheless.
He gets away with it though, thanks to lyrics such as this: “Rupert Murdoch rules the waves/Richard Branson doesn’t shave/Joe Strummer’s moulding in his grave,” - a treasure and observer of the worst injustices.
Two thumbs up for these.
Album Review. Jesu - Conqueror.
Metal can be beautiful. In the same way that say, a bulldog can. Not pretty, but beautiful. I’m thinking Isis mainly, when I say that, whom, fittingly, the main man here – metal legend Justin Broadwick – has recently remixed. It can also be extreme music, for sure. Violent, intrusive, totally bereft of any mass appeal, containing the ability to shatter any kind of peaceful sonic landscape.
This ‘ere Conqueror, by that there Jesu is a fairly relaxing affair, as it goes. The whole feel of the album is one of head-tired whimsy. The tight, intensity of the guitaring and the slow speed with which it all develops give it that certain ‘I must spend a bit of time with this record’ feel that draws you back to it over and over and over. In the most bizarre circumstances too. I never thought I’d find myself listening to epic metal in the bath, for instance.
It’s the bits other than the obvious that make this record great though. The vast soundscapes of ‘Weightless and Horizontal’; the electronic bleepery in the title track; the deserted breakdowns throughout; the obliterating heaviness of Brighteyes and the somehow ill-fitting, machine manufactured vocal in ‘Medicine’. Purists don’t like the vocal, apparently. Maybe that’s why I like it. I’ve not grown up with Broadwick. I’m aware of Napalm Death (former band) and their greatness, and I’ve tentatively heard of Godflesh (another former band), but they weren’t exactly the soundtrack to my teenage years.
Coming in at a later age then, my knowledge is belated. But the density, the endless hidden layers and the almost oppressive sadness that slowly embeds deep into my brain make this record at the very least - monumentally affecting; and at the most - a majestic piece of work.
This ‘ere Conqueror, by that there Jesu is a fairly relaxing affair, as it goes. The whole feel of the album is one of head-tired whimsy. The tight, intensity of the guitaring and the slow speed with which it all develops give it that certain ‘I must spend a bit of time with this record’ feel that draws you back to it over and over and over. In the most bizarre circumstances too. I never thought I’d find myself listening to epic metal in the bath, for instance.
It’s the bits other than the obvious that make this record great though. The vast soundscapes of ‘Weightless and Horizontal’; the electronic bleepery in the title track; the deserted breakdowns throughout; the obliterating heaviness of Brighteyes and the somehow ill-fitting, machine manufactured vocal in ‘Medicine’. Purists don’t like the vocal, apparently. Maybe that’s why I like it. I’ve not grown up with Broadwick. I’m aware of Napalm Death (former band) and their greatness, and I’ve tentatively heard of Godflesh (another former band), but they weren’t exactly the soundtrack to my teenage years.
Coming in at a later age then, my knowledge is belated. But the density, the endless hidden layers and the almost oppressive sadness that slowly embeds deep into my brain make this record at the very least - monumentally affecting; and at the most - a majestic piece of work.
Live Review. Figurines - Hoxton Bar & Grill - 26/2/07
The temptation to overdo things is too much for some. A little bit of this, here. A little bit of that, there. But sometimes, one must think to ones self: no need, there’s just no freakin’ need. However skilled we may be at the yielding of our sonic armoury, maybe we should just keep it simple. Not just do things because we can, but because they sound good. You get me? Course you do.
Arise the young, Danish, Figurines. Named the Figurines and Danish by birth, precisely, and oh my they excel at carving a tune. Simple, catchy, danceable and ever so loveable tunes. The tiny, fashionable Christian Hjelm leads proceedings like a talented farm boy, sick to the back of his ill-fitting tweed of the endless Nick Valensi domination on First Impressions Of Earth.
Five men yes, but each with a simple task. Frontman – singing, chords, occasional solo. Guitarist – chords, occasional solo. Bassist – bass. Drummer - drums. Keyboard/organist – keyboard/organ. They are an ode to simplicity, a master-class in understatement. The set is half an hour - they play nine songs. It’s all you need, no chance of boredom, a perfect preview of their skills.
Figurines appear like children deliberately deprived of prog-rock and jazz by two and half minute song loving parents, in order to produce the most intelligently un-adulterated pop music on the planet. And they fucking do. They’ve been doing it for ages too. The under-appreciation of this band is criminal. Although half full, the initially disinterested crowd can’t get enough. Surprised mutterings of, “that was bloody good actually,” fill the room. Third on the bill they were, third.
A travesty. Their album’s been out a while in the U.S see, but you can make them famous over here in March when they release Skeleton. With that title their genius is revealed. If one word describes them best, that is it – ‘skeleton’. Stripped down to the bones, the core structure remains. No flesh, no flab, no nothing, just everything that the rest is built on.
Less is more, people.
9/10
Arise the young, Danish, Figurines. Named the Figurines and Danish by birth, precisely, and oh my they excel at carving a tune. Simple, catchy, danceable and ever so loveable tunes. The tiny, fashionable Christian Hjelm leads proceedings like a talented farm boy, sick to the back of his ill-fitting tweed of the endless Nick Valensi domination on First Impressions Of Earth.
Five men yes, but each with a simple task. Frontman – singing, chords, occasional solo. Guitarist – chords, occasional solo. Bassist – bass. Drummer - drums. Keyboard/organist – keyboard/organ. They are an ode to simplicity, a master-class in understatement. The set is half an hour - they play nine songs. It’s all you need, no chance of boredom, a perfect preview of their skills.
Figurines appear like children deliberately deprived of prog-rock and jazz by two and half minute song loving parents, in order to produce the most intelligently un-adulterated pop music on the planet. And they fucking do. They’ve been doing it for ages too. The under-appreciation of this band is criminal. Although half full, the initially disinterested crowd can’t get enough. Surprised mutterings of, “that was bloody good actually,” fill the room. Third on the bill they were, third.
A travesty. Their album’s been out a while in the U.S see, but you can make them famous over here in March when they release Skeleton. With that title their genius is revealed. If one word describes them best, that is it – ‘skeleton’. Stripped down to the bones, the core structure remains. No flesh, no flab, no nothing, just everything that the rest is built on.
Less is more, people.
9/10
Live Review. The Hold Steady - Hoxton Bar & Grill - 15/2/07
The Hold Steady are ridiculous. They know what they love and they love it a lot. Feel good, old school American rock with a healthy splat of what use to be called heavy metal – Guns ‘n’ Roses, Motley Crue etc - but isn’t actually anything of the sort, is their tipple.
I would suggest that they also love, with undiluted homage, Bruce Springsteen. This then, was a very American sounding affair, so the venue – Hoxton Bar & Grill – was a suitably across-the-Atlantic-influenced hovel. The residents of which were a mixture of the middle aged and the long haired. Like I said - ridiculous. I felt like I was in a time warp.
Anyway, the scene is set, onto the music…
Keyboard backed, Les Paul rock riffs and elaborate solo’s were the main ingredient, covered often by Craig Finn’s highly distinctive and easily detestable speak/sing drawl. It’s big, it sounds dumb but it definitely isn’t, and Finn is without doubt one of the strangest front men I’ve ever witnessed.
Not a young man, naturally, but owning the traits of a weird child constantly and incessantly demanding attention. No doubt most performers crave this somewhat, but I’ve never seen it quite this blatant. It does somehow make him fairly likeable though, in a ‘bloody hell, he is enjoying himself’ type of way. You wouldn’t want to be his friend though. This band are quite probably a vehicle from which he can tell us about himself, which he does a lot, but crucially, he does it superbly.
They have crowd-pleasers galore. Their new record is a fun-time romp including Chips Ahoy and Southtown Girls which’re genuine anthems. These guys want big. Their music is massive, their skills are honed and they’re all wrong in a small venue. Their pure, unadulterated brand of power/sport rock is pretty much the antithesis of anything vaguely new wave or progressive, and it could, given half the chance, delight thousands upon thousands of people at a time, no problem. If you like that sort of thing.
I would suggest that they also love, with undiluted homage, Bruce Springsteen. This then, was a very American sounding affair, so the venue – Hoxton Bar & Grill – was a suitably across-the-Atlantic-influenced hovel. The residents of which were a mixture of the middle aged and the long haired. Like I said - ridiculous. I felt like I was in a time warp.
Anyway, the scene is set, onto the music…
Keyboard backed, Les Paul rock riffs and elaborate solo’s were the main ingredient, covered often by Craig Finn’s highly distinctive and easily detestable speak/sing drawl. It’s big, it sounds dumb but it definitely isn’t, and Finn is without doubt one of the strangest front men I’ve ever witnessed.
Not a young man, naturally, but owning the traits of a weird child constantly and incessantly demanding attention. No doubt most performers crave this somewhat, but I’ve never seen it quite this blatant. It does somehow make him fairly likeable though, in a ‘bloody hell, he is enjoying himself’ type of way. You wouldn’t want to be his friend though. This band are quite probably a vehicle from which he can tell us about himself, which he does a lot, but crucially, he does it superbly.
They have crowd-pleasers galore. Their new record is a fun-time romp including Chips Ahoy and Southtown Girls which’re genuine anthems. These guys want big. Their music is massive, their skills are honed and they’re all wrong in a small venue. Their pure, unadulterated brand of power/sport rock is pretty much the antithesis of anything vaguely new wave or progressive, and it could, given half the chance, delight thousands upon thousands of people at a time, no problem. If you like that sort of thing.
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